


Protocol

by kylosbrickhousebody



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, BDSM, Breathplay, Buckle up, Choking, Come Eating, Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Come as Lube, Dom!Kylo, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Dominant Kylo Ren, Eating Disorders, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Force Choking, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Use of Lightsabers, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Math Kink, Shameless Smut, Top Kylo Ren, Violent Sex, and dragging you all with me, im going to hell, literally the smuttiest smut smut to ever happen, strangely specific things about math that no one cares about but me, sub!Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 00:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14032563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylosbrickhousebody/pseuds/kylosbrickhousebody
Summary: The Triumvirate come to visit your First Order training group. Everyone pays attention to another one of Hux's uptight, self-important speeches--except you, of course, because you'd rather try to rub one out to Kylo's brickhouse body.He might have other plans.





	1. Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> "But Kylosbrickhousebody, you can't just write yourself into your own fic!"
> 
> Ah, my friends, but that's where you're wrong.
> 
> [CW: Eating disorder hurt/comfort]

You dropped your pencil and chewed on your lip. Shit. You were losing your focus.

The incomplete Fourier Series stared up at you, each missing element taunting you. It was an even function, so Bn had to be zero; that much you knew was right. A0 wasn’t a difficult integral because it only over f(x). But An… the answer you got didn’t match the one on your calculator. Your eyes flicked in frustration between the glow of the small screen and the sheet of paper, filled with scribbles and crossed-out work. It would be a mistake with integration by parts— _again_. This problem had required the method twice—and chain rule to take each derivative. It was a nasty little bugger. You were probably missing a factor of n like usual.

You sighed heavily and tossed the stack of old study papers on top of the current problem. You learned back in the stiff chair; your hands flew up to the sides of your head, rubbing at your temples to ease the pain between them. None of your other work was much better, that much you knew. Your exciting alternatives included finding the null and column sets for given matrices—which currently made very little sense to you—or trying to make progress on your multiple regression project. That, at least, was interesting; at least you liked statistics.

Statistics, unfortunately, did not like you back.

Studying at this level on the _Supremacy_ was supposed to be a dream fulfilled—a promise of a better life, some kind of assurance of a good post. An officer position. Something that mattered, something that made you indispensable. That’s what new recruits thought, at least. You’d been one of them, once; you’d worked tremendously hard in your prior training group to rise to the top and claim the little opportunity that existed. It hadn’t solved any of your problems, though; you were just as unhappy as you’d been before. Just as restless. None of the depression or anxiety had gone, even as your life became marginally more comfortable aboard _Supremacy_.

Really, you should be proud of yourself to have even made it to this point; no one from your bloodline had, or so the trainers had told you. You’d never met your birth parents—you weren’t even sure if they were ever a part of the First Order. All you knew is that you had been raised in its childhood programs, tasked from a young age to grow into the next generation of Stromtroopers, Officers, and service-people aboard the Order’s many bases, ships, and outposts. You’d never had any control over your destiny; all the diagnosing, sorting, and assignments had been done for you.

To that end, you were proud that you’d made it to this point. None of your early diagnostic tests had ever really showed a penchant for engineering or math. Instead, you’d shown aptitude in writing, communications—but not enough to compete for one of the limited jobs in those areas. Mostly, those positions went to the children of existing officers, especially the ones higher-up; they were the only ones who had the influence and connections to determine their own directions within the Order.

Instead, you’d worked your ass off during the semester before final testing; you’d done so many practice problems that you filled up an entire binder within your first week. The skin of your fingertips grew thicker, calloused from holding pens and pencils so tightly in your hands all the time. The skin on the side of your hands became a constant metallic grey-black from the graphite and ink perpetually smeared against them from rubbing against your markings while writing. You’d made no friends during that period—not that friendship was encouraged in the programs, as it wasn’t—but you barely minded. It worked: you’d been allowed to enroll in university-level engineering and math study, which came with the ‘added bonus’ (you’d rolled your eyes) of relocating to _Supremacy_.

It hadn’t taken long for you to grow disillusioned. Sure, the program you were in all but assured an at-least-decent job—the final assignments would be chosen and assigned for you—but the hierarchy of the First Order still cared nothing for you. Your fellow novices may have still been wrapped up in the excitement and faux-honor of your selection, but you weren’t—not anymore, at least. You knew, quite clearly, that even at this level, you were just another cog in the machine of the First Order. Expendable—with just a little bit more difficulty than the rest—and working only towards the goals of its leaders. Hux, Phasma, and—

A hand materialized on the desk in front of you, another waving in front of your face.

You jumped.

“Hey, we gotta go to the assembly.”

You jerked to look up at the speaker, the tension in your face dissipating when a familiar one greeted you.

“Thanks, Joe,” you started, moving to start packing up your things. You cast a glance behind you to look at the clock on the wall. “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.”

“Sure. I’ll save you a seat.”

He was a nice boy, Joe, you thought as you threw the stacks of paper and your calculator (you’d never been one for organization) into your cheap-fake-leather knapsack—standard issue for novices. He was kind with a heart of gold. Where you saw some grand conspiracy, he had faith in the Order. You could see the glow of pride on his face, that he was given the opportunity to serve his superiors. He was generous to a fault, happily overlooking the flaws of others.

On paper, he looked perfect: kind, generous, tall, funny. For some reason, though, sparks never flew. The universe probably hated you too much; he was a good person, and you were not. He deserved someone better.

Throwing your bag over a shoulder, you crossed through the aisles of the quiet study room and out the door into the corridor that led to your unit’s cafeteria. The walls that surrounded you had a claustrophobic feel to them; designed for sleekness, not comfort, the black interiors and metal floors had always made you feel uneasy. Its monochromatic scheme mirrored the motto aboard the ship: ‘One People, One Order, One Leader’.

As for that one leader—the Supreme Leader—no one had ever seen him. No, for all it mattered to you and the rest of the plebs, you served the Triumvirate of High Command. General Hux managed military strategy, Captain Phasma the training programs, and Commander Kylo Ren did… something. Commanded, you guessed. People rarely saw him, either—when they did, he had always (allegedly) been masked.

You rounded the corner and breathed a sigh of relief; the tables had been lined up in assembly formation, and Joe had indeed saved you a seat. Even better was the girl seated next to him.

“Cara!”  
  
You bounded over with a newfound enthusiasm for this whole stupid event. Your closest confidant, Cara was one of the few other women novices in your unit. She shared your sense of humor, general distaste for protocol, and issue with authority. You grinned.

“How are you?” you asked, struggling to pleat the skirt of your dress under you so that nothing showed. This was a ‘high protocol’ assembly—the Triumvirate were coming to give you all some masturbatory talk or something—and thus you’d been ordered to wear your best uniforms. Which, you noted with annoyance, always seemed to mean restrictive work uniforms for women, and much-more-comfortable-looking dress pants and pressed shirt for men. Anyone whose identity fell outside a gender binary generally kept quiet about it; the First Order was _not_ a progressive Galactic force.

Cara smiled sympathetically and nodded towards your skirt. “I know, I hate these fucking things.”

You rolled your eyes.

“And so tucked in at the waist!”

“So tucked in.” She rolled hers, too, like the petty 20-year-olds you were. “I dunno when I signed up to be somebody’s stewardess fantasy, but here we are.”

Snorting, you shared a knowing look. Thank god you weren’t alone in this fascist hell-hole.

You listened to a slew of Cara’s life updates: new details about her boyfriend, something having to do with her graduation from the program, her overwhelming desire to get a dog when she became an officer. Only when Joe chimed in with his own excited chatter did you speak.

“—and I heard Commander Ren is coming!” he finished with too-much excitement “You guys know that he carries that laser-beam weapon with him everywhere? It’s probably going to be here today! And he can read your thoughts—”

“That’s an old wives’ tale,” you cut across him. “I mean, come on.”

“He’s a force-user—”

“I know what he is.” You snapped a little louder than you’d meant to. “I just don’t believe in the mind-reading stuff. I mean, surely it’s not that easy. Minds aren’t books to be open and read. I mean, we have entire medical program groups devoted just to neuroscience.”

The smile on his face dimmed a little. “Still, though, even if he can’t; the laser thing is mighty cool, eh? And that he can wield the force at all?”

You shared a rueful look with Cara and sighed. “I mean, I don’t really think it’s that impressive to just be born with something. Which is what force-users were: born with it. It’s not like Ren worked for it or anything, it just fell into his lap—”

A group of unfamiliar novices had, meanwhile, sat down at the other end of the table, filling out the remaining seats. One of them cast you a small glare.

Another leaned in and hissed down the table, “You shouldn’t talk about High Command like that.” You scoffed. “Besides, they’ve instituted high protocol for today—so I think you mean _Commander_ Ren.”

You sneered. “Why yes, Commander Ren, I’ll happily kiss your ass. Oh, General Hux, you too? Well, of course!” you mimicked in a sing-songy voice, “You damn well know this ‘High Command’ thing is bullshit. Why should they be so privileged while we’re worked to death down here? And this whole culture of never questioning it—I mean, it’s mental. You’re mental.”

You picked up the drink Cara had gotten up and brought to you—she hated confrontations—and took a confident sip. New-kids got up and left with little disgusted huffs. If they were so happy to be servants, so be it. You, however, you—

Your train of thought was derailed by the loud scraping of chairs on the metal floor. Novices were beginning to stand, saluting the lines of stormtroopers leading the way for your _beloved_ leaders. First came Phasma, decked in her usual all-Chrome-all-the-time outfit. You thought the addition of the red cape draped over one shoulder was a nice touch, though. Hux followed, his tightly-pressed command suit shown up only by his no-strand-of-hair-left-behind combover. Then, came… _oh_. So _this_ was Kylo Ren.

Where Hux tried to exude power, this man succeeded. You felt yourself take a small step back; your table was adjacent to the main aisle. Heavy footsteps carried him forward, the crunch of his boots audible through the silence that had fallen over the room. Black seemed to sheath every part of his body, from the military-style boots, to his leather-looking pants and gloves, to the quilted tunic that lay over his chest, to the cowl and hood resting on top of his head. There, a black-and-chrome helmet covered his last opportunity to show any skin.

“Someone got a little carried away with Halloween, eh?” you snickered to Cara.

The Triumvirate marched up the aisle; the last man seemed to do so with a bit of a lumbering, angry walk—as though this wasn’t worth his time. You wondered too-casually if maybe he thought this whole thing was as bullshit as you did.

His footsteps fell out of time with the others. Time blurred a little bit, your own breathing loud in your ears, as the face of his helmet turned to look directly at you.

Something indistinct twisted sharply in your stomach; a warm sting pooled in your belly and shot between your legs faster than you could stop it. You dropped your gaze to the floor, where protocol demanded your eyes should’ve been in the first place.

Hux said a few words and, apparently, invited the room to be seated; the beat of your own heart was sounding too loudly in your ears for you to hear the words. Instead, you plopped into your chair when the others did, hoping no one was any the wiser.

“You, the creators of the technology of tomorrow—”

You groaned internally; Hux speeches were always terribly boring. Instead, as the minutes passed, you found your eyes wandering back to the man in black. Your heart pounded at first, afraid that perhaps he _could_ hear you, _could_ stare right into your soul. If he could, he showed no further indications. His helmet was trained ahead, eyepiece simply staring at the wall in the back.

Your heartrate calmed as the speech droned on—something about the Starkiller Superweapon—and, slowly, you permitted your eyes to wander again. Up his boots, his legs, his chest, to those strong shoulders. Broad, broad shoulders. You shifted forward in your seat a little, straining for friction to quell the warmth between your thighs. He might be overdressed, but his stance radiated confidence. Fists flexed and unflexed at his sides; his chest rose and fell slowly. Your eyes drifted to the end of his tunic, where the fabric split into two and flanked each thigh.

Oh.

Fully zoned out, you allowed your mind to drift to the blowjob you’d given a novice named Logan behind the training fields. It’d been a while ago, now; it couldn’t help to fantasize, could it? You wouldn’t mind parting the ends of _his_ tunic, unzipping _his_ pants… You let out a tiny moan, scooting forward in your chair more than you’d meant to.

Cara shot you a quizzical look. You cleared your throat and straightened up, crossing your legs under the table instead.

Hux—who was somehow _still_ rambling on—was thin and wiry. You’d always assumed Ren would be the same. But no, his body was decidedly strong, thick arms dwarfed only by thicker thighs. The memory of what you’d done with Logan started playing in your mind again as the minutes ticked by. All of your training had taught you to please the high command; just how pleased would this Commander be with you running your hands over _his_ thighs? In your daydream, you looked up at the faceless stranger through your lashes, just as you’d done that day; instead of sucking Logan’s balls into your mouth, they were _his_. Yeah, how quickly would that make you crumble, you fascist fucking “mind-reading”—

Before you could finish the thought, the face of his helmet had turned. It seemed to cut through the crowd, its gaze staring only at you.

Your breath hitched in panic, that familiar twisting of your stomach returning. Heat shot between your thighs again, mixing with the white-hot burning of fear that coursed through your veins. You couldn’t explain it, but he knew—he definitely knew.

When Hux finished speaking and the novices were finally dismissed, you shot to your feet with uncharacteristic speed. “Well, bye,” you mumbled to your friends, grabbing your bag and all but sprinted into the corridor opposite the one you’d entered through—the quieter one, the one that led away from your group’s classrooms and housing. Anywhere but here.

“Stop.”

The mechanical buzz of the voice stopped you cold in your tracks before he’d even fully issued the command. Panic shot through your veins and paralyzed your heart, its last heavy beat pulsing hard in your clit.

Loud footsteps—the sole footsteps in the corridor, thank god—slowly approached you.

Modulated breaths drew close to your ear; a second later, cool metal pressed against it.

“You,” the inhuman voice started, authoritative and severe, “have a filthy mouth.” He made a noise that sounded like a low chuckle; the mirth in his voice became clear, “And an even filthier mind.”

A warm, leather-clad finger trailed up the inside of one wrist, his breath somehow managing to warm your ear. Then, to your surprise he pulled away, stepped around you, and started to walk down the hallway.

Relief flowed through you, cooling the heat in your blood. Maybe there really was a God after all.

“Oh,” he called back without turning, as if you were of no consequence, “and come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HATE WRITING INTRO CHAPTERS OMG 
> 
> Smut is coming down the tracks like a bullet train. Buckle up, kiddos.
> 
> Also -- I am seriously not kidding about going to hell for this. There's going to be rough sex. Like, if you don't get off to the idea of dom!kylo being rough with reader, you should turn back here and preserve your heaven-card.
> 
> P.S. My deep, dark soul loves reading your comments. Please share your filth with me. God bless.


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Ren finds a better use for your filthy mouth. He also finds a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: allusion to an eating disorder. I've tagged the fic accordingly and left a note at the beginning with a content warning. Please read with caution if you're easily triggered by eating disorder mentions/etc. I'm gonna try not to write anything graphic or upsetting to most/etc -- so the cw is more just there for anyone who finds it a real hot-button trigger in their life. 
> 
> This character is literally me, oops. Homegirl hella fucking somebody on the board of her uni. Relatable, am I right; Daddy Ren here to be Better Than You(tm) and turn you out.

This was how you died.

This was surely how you died.

You decided as much when he gestured you into a storage closet and switched on the light. A large, unexpectedly warm hand encased in leather wrapped around both wrists and walked you back into the wall.

You didn’t dare speak, nor look at him; you kept your eyes on the ground as you were supposed to in the presence of High Command. Why had you been so stupid? They _weren’t_ wives’ tales—they were true. Shit. Shit shit shit—

He remained silent for a few moments, helmet unmoving from his vantage point. He must’ve been staring at you from behind that metal—and staring, and staring. Your right temple must have been the most interesting in the world.

“Well?” came that voice, deep and low in its timbre. “Why aren’t you on your knees?”

The heart that had been hammering in your chest paused; the warmth in your belly twisted again, harder this time, more desperate. Electricity shot to your clit. You swallowed the bile in your mouth, mind blank. This was happening.

“Sir?”

He chuckled, his amusement undisguised by the helmet’s vocoder. “ _’It’s not like Ren worked for it or anything, it just fell into his lap.’_ ” You managed, somehow, to blanch even whiter. You squirmed uncomfortably; heat burned your cheeks and spread mercilessly across the rest of your face. “And now… ‘Sir’. You change your mind fast, little girl.”

A small noise rose from your throat—a soft little mewl, involuntary as anything.

“Yes, Sir,” you said quietly. It seemed like the only thing you could say.

He sighed, a deep, menacing noise coming from the mouthpiece of his helmet. It blew against your ear, warm and threatening. And _pleased_. “Well, then, you have two choices. Leave now—it won’t have any effect on your record—and I’ll never bother with you again.” You flinched; somehow, it sounded personal—like some kind of challenge. ‘Can you handle me?’. “Or,” he said, shifting his weight back on his heels, dropping the arm that had boxed you in, “Stay here and fix the problem you’ve made.”

With one slight rotation of his hips, his hard length pressed against your stomach, flush to the skin barely containing the butterflies fluttering within. Your heart hammered in your chest. He couldn’t really be proposing..?

“Is this allowed?” you spat without thinking, groaning silently a moment later at your stupidity.

He chuckled openly now, regarding you with a tilt of his head. “Don’t pretend now that you care anything for rules, little whore.” _Oh_. So it _was_ — “Decide.” You jumped; his tone made you flinch. “Now.”

No sound filled your ears other than that of your own breathing—and, a moment later, his, rhythmic and static. Perfectly controlled. Did he do this all the time? You frowned a little at the thought.

“Are you staying, then? ‘ _For the story’_ ,” he sneered the last words.

You lost your bearings, then, daring to look up into his helmet, eyes wild. Just how much did he know? You’d always told Cara that ‘at least you had the story’ after regrettable sex—

“I expect an answer when I ask you a question.” This man was not a patient one. Your heart began hammering again, returning from its smoke break. That tone—it was not to be fucked with. You gulped down your fears and nodded timidly. Were you really doing this? “Verbally,” he corrected.

“Yes, Sir.” Your voice sounded little more than a whisper.

A garbled noise came from behind his mask—a triumphant huff, you were sure of it. “ _Of course_ you are,” he started, voice sounding gentler now—understanding, even. Coaxing. “Because good sluts take cock when they’re asked, don’t they?”

You blinked; something was lodged in your throat. “Yes, Sir?”

“Lose the question-mark, slut.” He placed his hands on either shoulder. You knew immediately what he wanted. “You should already be on your knees.”

“I’m… sorry?” Shit. There was that question-mark again.

He made a sound low in his throat, stepping around you to lock the door; it twisted into place with a quiet metal clang. He turned, stomped back to you in that same confident pace, and gripped your shoulders again.

“I didn’t know a nasty little thing like you could get nervous. Down,” he ordered decisively, pushing you onto your knees.

Oh god. Oh god. This _was_ happening. Definitely happening.

“’God’ is a little far, but I’ll take it,” he said, one hand snaking into your hair. Fuck; you’d forgotten about the mind-reading. He gathered it up and tugged—harder than you were expecting. Your roots protested; an unrestrained gasp left your lips. Somehow, behind his mask, you were sure he was smirking; he _liked_ this. “You’re going to be sucking my cock tonight.”

“I—uh—I figured as much.”

He paused. One of those gloved hands smacked you across one cheek, just hard enough to leave a sting. His thumb stroked the skin he’d slapped, as if trying to soothe any pain.

Pressure constricted around your neck, invisible hands cutting off the blood that ran there—the Force, you realized, as the lack of oxygen tickled your brain. He forced you to look up at him with his other hand, still wrapped painfully in your hair. Fear, pain, and arousal dueled for real estate in your eyes; your clit, against all good judgement, begged for attention. Worst of all, you knew he knew it, too.

“My sluts learn to respect me.”

Sluts. Plural?

“Plural?”

He made a small noise of appreciation as the Force tightened around your neck. “You _like_ being treated like this. I know you do. I knew it the minute I saw you, dressed like a slutty little schoolgirl, fresh off that treasonous tirade against your superiors. That little tongue of yours says some filthy things. I have a better use for it.”

You swallowed—hard—and licked your lips. It seemed like the best thing to do, to keep quiet. Your ears burned; you felt dirty even listening to him; you felt even dirtier knowing he was _right_.

“You _are_ dirty. Filthy, even,” he murmured. His tone seemed less harsh now, though it was still mangled by the voicebox in his helmet. The same hand that slapped you rose in your periphery; all your muscles tensed. He tsked softly and pressed the thumb against your lips, spreading the wetness there. Your thighs pressed together, seeking friction; between them, another kind of wetness grew.

The seam of his glove pushed past your lips; you closed them around him instinctually. Another low groan escaped the man, who pressed his largest finger down onto your tongue.

“First, though, some protocol.” He spoke in a low, hushed tone, as though might disturb something delicate if he raised his voice.

Your brows knitted together in a silent question before you felt the gentle tap of rubber and metal between your knees—one of his boots, prying your legs apart. You craned your neck to look down; he snapped your gaze back up to his with a flick of his wrist.

“You’re not in control here,” he reminded you—you didn’t need any reminding—and pressed the toe of his boot more forcefully between your knees. “And you’re not worthy of sucking my cock yet. Spread your legs.”

You did as you were told, the cold floor brushing against the skin on your shins as you spread them apart. Your cheeks, meanwhile, felt hotter than ever.

“Sit back on your heels, hands behind your back” You did, the cold skin of your goose-bumped legs pressing together, grasping one wrist with the fingers of your other hand. He seemed to lean back slightly, visor tilting down your body in a once-over assessment. “Pretty girl.”

It shouldn’t have meant anything to you and yet, somehow, your panic eased up. Even if this stranger—one of the most powerful men in the galaxy, the Commander of your entire Order— _had_ just finished slapping you… well, he possessed a lighter touch, too. It warmed you to him, drawing you closer. Somehow, you _wanted_ to please him.

He seemed to sense you calming. His free hand dropped to his pants; you watched, hypnotized, as the leather glove worked to free the top button, pulling the zipper down the length of its track. Long fingers dipped into the opening, pushing layers aside until his half-hard cock emerged—just as thick as it had felt when he pressed against you.

Your eyes widened, lips parting. You weren’t sure you could take girth like that—

“You can. You have a big mouth,” he supplied for you.

A joke? A little stream of uncomfortable laughter tickled your insides—you did your best to suppress it, the color of embarrassment spreading across your face. His helmet tipped to one side, regarding you curiously.

“Well, whore?” he asked, left hand snaking into your hair again. Your clit screamed for touch. “I thought you wanted to impress me. And no hands,” he reminded. That voice—it was jarring. His cock proved humanity; a thick vein ran along the underside of his shaft, pulsing with his heart-beat. His length jumped when your eyes dropped to it, the slickness of his pre-cum coating a head begging for attention. Beyond it, a barely-visible patch of dark hair at his base. But then, that voice: mechanical, static, manufactured. It felt so cold in comparison. Was there an accident, like Darth Vader? Maybe he was a burn victim. A pang of pity coursed through you. Maybe his face—

“Stop thinking,” that same voice spoke. Your lips had formed a small _o_ ; he took the opportunity to push the head past them, warm and salty on your tongue. “You shouldn’t be thinking about anything but making this cock cum in your mouth.”

Where a blush simmered on your cheeks before, it boiled over now. No one had talked to you like this; entirely in control, leaving nothing up for debate. You wrapped your lips around him obediently, tonguing clean the pre-cum from his slit. He groaned appreciatively, fisting tighter in your hair.

“Such a good slut. Show me what a good little cocksucker you are,” he said, punctuating the last words with small thrusts along your tongue. He pulsed between your lips as you started to suck, folding your lips over onto your teeth, laving the underside of his head. The hand in your hair tugged, his fingers pressing into your scalp, guiding you along his shaft. He started to move in, out, then back in again; leaking precum mixed with your spit, his length growing with every pass.

“This is where that nasty fucking mouth belongs, isn’t it?” he growled, a groan escaping his throat as he pressed deeper. “Isn’t it, whore? Answer me when I ask you a question.”

You vocalized what you could into his cock; he moaned and fucked into the vibrations, the head of his cock hitting your throat. You gagged, tongue fighting to push the intruder out of your throat; he grasped the back of your head and pushed you down instead. An obscene retching noise emerged from your throat, wet and humiliating. He was going to punish you—

“More,” he commanded, pulling out of your throat. You gasped for breath, coughing a few times; a long, white string of spit escaped your lips, pooling uncomfortably on your knee.  “Spit that out on my cock.”

You hesitated for a second, shivering with self-consciousness. The cold press of metal relieved you a second later, grinding into your clit. Jumping, you looked between your legs; he’d pressed the toe of one boot between them, rubbing firmly onto your nub.

“Spit,” he repeated, slower this time, “and choke yourself on my cock.”

Somehow—you moaned, rubbing against his foot, desperate for the stimulation—his order felt less filthy now. Your mind clouded as the heat between your legs built; you spat, his already-slick cock glimmering with wetness, and wrapped your lips around him again. He groaned as the warm wetness of your mouth engulfed him, the thighs on either side of your head straining against the urge to thrust. You looked up, straining to look into the blackness where his eyes should be, and pressed towards his length until the head tickled your gag reflex. The hand in your hair refused to let go, pressing you down harshly until you choked, the muscles in your jaw straining to allow him entry to your throat.

“Good girl,” you vaguely heard him say from somewhere above you. Your eyes had shut tight when you swallowed against his cock, little tears forming from your gag reflex. For his part, he thrust deep into your throat, pulling back only slightly before burying his length in the velvet heat again. A string of obscenities left his lips—or, well, his helmet—and even through the mouthpiece, there was no mistaking his quickening breath or growing desire.

You didn’t have a role anymore; not here, on your knees, his cock fucking your throat. Your job was to take it, all of it. Your hips rubbed against his boot desperately, your own need growing, as his bucked harder into your mouth. You knew the signs of a man approaching ecstasy, even through your haze; his thrusts were becoming shorter, more erratic. When he cursed down at you, commanding you to “take it”, his own desperation was clear. "I want you," he panted, "to think about this, every. time. you. open. that. filthy. little. mouth."

Leather gloves—both of them—fisted in your hair, dragging you close to him, your forehead flush against a clothed belly. Your lips brushed against the dark patch of hair you’d seen earlier, his length jammed down your throat. You swallowed against him, spit running down your chin, as you fought the urge to gag.

“Swallow,” he said in a tone so wrought with desperation it sounded almost-pleading, his hands wrapped tightly around your head. The vein of his shaft pulsed hard on your tongue, depressing it with every tight thrust into your throat. He held onto you tightly for a few more moments, pumping his seed into your embarrassingly-eager mouth, the sounds of him trying to catch his own breath filling the air.

When he finally released you, you slumped against the wall, jaw aching from the rough use. You blinked tiredly a few times, still feeling lightheaded from the thick haze that he’d talked you into. Your clit begged for more; it was clear, as he tucked himself neatly away, that you’d need to take care of yourself.

He squatted down a moment later, level with your eyes. You swallowed meekly, blush returning to your cheeks. He stared at you quietly for a moment, not laboring to say anything. Then a leather glove rose, thumb brushing your cheek gently. You pressed into him without thinking—the touch felt nice—and his other hand dipped between your legs. When it emerged, his helmet glanced down at the soaked glove. “Good girl,” he murmured, an appreciative tone back in his voice, gentle and reassuring even with the electronic layer on top of it.

With a pang of regret—or maybe you’d imagined it—he rose to his full height, unlocked the door, and grasped it. He turned slightly and hesitated. When he spoke, he sounded almost sympathetic.

“I expect my cum to stay in your stomach, along with the rest of your meals.”

You froze. No. He couldn’t know. But he knew. Shame bubbled up from your core; hot tears formed in your eyes. You didn’t want anyone else knowing your secret.

“Do you understand?” he asked gently.

A tear slipped from your waterline, burning a path down a ruddy cheek. You swiped it away quickly, as though he might not have seen, and nodded.

A heavy silence lingered—he _was_ hesitating—before he opened the door, stepped through the threshold, and closed it too-lightly. You were relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FILTH. PURE, UNBRIDLED FILTH. With a small punch of feels to the gut.
> 
> ALL-ABOARD THE HELL TRAIN.
> 
> Also my throat is really sore today so this chapter only seemed right.


	3. Self-awareness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader contemplates life after her tryst with Kylo -- or, uh, Kylo's tryst with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have lied about the eating disorder not developing into a described thing. It's central to the hurt/comfort aspects of this story, and it's something that's deeply personal to me (who is basically Reader-chan, to be honest -- like these supporting characters are literally all real people, and the place described at the end is a real place, too [bonus points if anyone happens to know where]. Oops.)
> 
> I'm gonna try to go about it in a way that's not graphic or gory with the details -- but with that said, if you're in any way liable to get triggered by mere mentions of eating disorders, I'm warning you now.
> 
> Also includes MATH THAT NO ONE ASKED FOR. BUT I HAVE TO SUFFER THROUGH THIS, SO YOU DO, TOO.

“Okay, so to generate P, first you take the eigenvalues—you know how to get those, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, from the eigenvalues you get the eigenvectors, and you make each vector a column of P.”

“Sure.”

“So once you’ve done that, you just list out the eigenvalues for each column along the main diagonal—and that’s D.”

Joe waited for a cue that you were listening. You had been; you were just a little distracted.

He reached forward and tapped the end of his pencil against your forearm.

“Got it?” he asked.

“Mhm, yeah,” you acknowledged with a lazy nod of your head.

“Okay, so: when that’s done, and you have P and D, you’ll also want the inverse of P. You remember that, right?”

“Sure, just augment the matrix with the identity matrix and solve.”

“Yeah; so you’ll have P, P-inverse, and D, and basically you multiply all of those together to get A^k.”

You made a vague, non-committal sound of agreement and rested your head against your upright fist.

“What’s the order of multiplication?” you asked with a yawn.

Joe glared at you a little, leaning back in his chair. “Come on,” he said, looking a little concerned for you. “You know even matrix multiplication is associative.”

“…Oh. Right. Mhm.” You nodded as if you’d never forgotten.

“So, does that make sense? How you can find A?”

“Nope.”

The young man across from you let out a little groan, stacking his notes back into the neat little pile they’d come from.

“Right, well, I’ll pray for you,” he joked, gathering his things up, “I’ve got a Service League meeting in 20—you’re welcome to come, if you want.”

You shook your head, staring hopelessly down at your own homework. “No thanks, I’m not here to kiss Hux’s ass.”

He just snorted, told you to take care, and went on his way.

Service League, you well knew, was one of General Hux’s pet projects: a thinly-veiled attempt at indoctrinating top students studying on the Supremacy before they grew old enough to think for themselves. They preyed on vulnerable students like Joe—smart, sure, and capable of contributing lots to the First Order, but not quite set in his ways yet. Novices like him were still malleable—and Hux was doing his damndest to create a pipeline of brainwashed officers. Plenty of perfectly nice kids joined up; it masqueraded as a club, a place to build skills among friends, and occasionally boasted cool “off-campus” (read: off ship) spaceflight activities.

You weren’t jealous, though. You could see past the shiny membership pins and mediocre perks. It wasn’t about friendship at all, really; it was about servitude.

Everything was, you thought, scowling down at your paper. You weren’t really any less enslaved than Joe, not if you thought about it. You were just exchanging different goods for different services—it didn’t take belief in the First Order mission to recognize the plus of a nice, warm bed and stable job when you saw one. They provided for you—always had. At least there was that.

The loose-leaf paper stared up at you, filled with questions on the applications of eigenvalues and eigenvectors to dynamical systems, prediction metrics, and steady-states—and on change of bases, too. A list of dense-looking True/False section waited to be answered:

  1. _A number c is an eigenvalue of A if and only if the equation (A_ _–_ _cI)~x = ~0 has a nontrivial solution._
  2. _If ~v1 and ~v2 are linearly independent vectors, then they correspond to distinct eigenvalues._
  3. _If Lambda + 5 is a factor of the characteristic polynomial of A then 5 is an eigenvalue of A._
  4. _If A is diagonalizable then A is invertible._



“Eugh.”

You scrunched your nose up as if you’d seen something terribly disgusting and threw your textbook over top of the problems. Thumbing at the ‘on’ switch of your datapad, you opened the novice messaging app to check your notifications. Several sprang to life as soon as the window opened:

 

> **– Cara | 18:37 –**
> 
> _Hey, Don and I are getting food._

 

> **– Cara | 19:23 –**
> 
> _Getting drinks._
> 
> _Want to join?_

Shit. You checked the time display in the lower left hand corner of the screen: 19:58.

 

Goddammit.

 

> **– You | 19:58 –**
> 
> _Do I ever. Are you still there?_

 

You tucked the rest of your study materials into your bag and power walked out of the library as fast as you could manage (without getting into trouble). You didn’t have to wait for her to reply—you knew where she’d be.

 

* * *

 

 You tapped the heavy metal panel hiding the speakeasy hallway. A moment later, it slid aside for you, manned by a volunteer whom you nodded at.

 This was one of the few areas of Supremacy that wasn’t whitewashed—or, rather, black-washed, if there was such a thing. So much of the ship was black: dark walls, dark metal floors, dark uniforms. Here, tucked away from authority, officers, troopers, and novices alike congregated in slight rebellion.

 First Order Anarchy, they called it.

 It wasn’t really anything special, the space itself—just a slim, claustrophobic hallway tucked behind some metal panels off the bridge hallway. Originally, Supremacy design plans had designated this area as a bunker; engineers scrapped that idea later on, deeming it too close to the potential blast radius of enemy fire. Somehow, the change of plans wasn’t communicated down the production chain, and the region of the ship was built anyway.

An adventurous novice had found it a few years ago after the ship’s commission. He turned it into a secret speakeasy and arts lounge—any _one_ was permitted to paint any _thing_ on the walls.

You and Cara came here often. You appreciated people like this: people who didn’t take themselves—or the First Order—too seriously.

Familiar faces nodded at you in passing as you crossed the threshold to the red fire extinguisher wedged away in its box. Yes, it was a speakeasy—but you could never be too safe. The penalties for illegal congregation and the penalties for the illicit consumption of unapproved alcohol—well, those were very different things.

You reached up, heaved the extinguisher out of its nook with a grunt, and—after setting it down on the floor—pressed firmly on the back panel it’d been hiding. This triggered some kind of pneumatic system a novice a few years before you had rigged, revealing a small tap hooked up to a keg of what you knew to be harder-than-allowed liquor.

You filled your cup, slid the paneling back into place, put the extinguisher back, and turned to find Cara.

“Hey!”

Or, rather, she’d found you.

“Oh, hey,” you said, a little startled by the sudden apparition of your friend. You brought your cup to your lips quickly, eager to take a drink; she had a wild look in her eyes, and that couldn’t be good.

“So what the hell happened with Kylo Ren?”

Definitely not good.

_Well, he put me on my knees and shoved his cock down my throat—_

“Oh,” you managed to say in a relatively-normal-sounding tone, “yeah.” You faked a grimace to the best of your abilities, pulling your shoulders in as if recalling a bad memory. “He heard that Halloween comment I made.”

She gasped like the extra bitch she was. “He didn’t!”

_You’re right, he didn’t. I was actually gagging on his dick and grinding on his boot—_

“Yeah,” you confirmed with false solemnness, biting on a lip. “Screamed at me in the janitor’s closet down the hall. Tore some stuff up in there, too. Y’know, with the lightsaber and all.”

Your ability to lie so well on the spot concerned you a bit. Maybe you were a pathological liar and just lacked self-awareness until now. You made a mental note to re-assess your priorities later on—along with the rest of your life.

“Damn,” she said, taking a sip of her own drink. Apparently, she was convinced enough—at least for now. She seemed to be in a good mood. “Rough.”

_Just like he was on my throat._

You nodded. “Very.”

Possibly the first sincere thing you’d said. Well, that’s a start.

A slow, playful smile spread across your friend’s features. She rocked up onto the balls of her feet, back down, and up again. “So I have some news of my own…”

This should be good. You took another long swig of the hard liquor, unable to suppress a face of disgust at the end. It was suddenly very clear why this kind of drink was banned. Nothing over fifty proof should be—

“We’re getting married!” Cara squeal-yelled, thrusting her ring-bearing finger into your face, her boyfriend (whom you’d neglected to notice) walking over to join her at her side.

“Oh, hey Don,” you said a little stupidly.

A small, selfish pang of sadness turned your otherwise-empty stomach; she’d gotten engaged, and you hadn’t been there. She’d gotten engaged; she was going to graduate soon, and you were going to have a year left, and she was going to move on. She’d gotten _engaged_.

“Wow,” you added, tacking on the requisite grin and girlish giddiness, “that’s amazing! Oh my god! You have to tell me the cute story.”

You allowed yourself to be led over to the few threadbare couches and pillows that lined the hallway, happy to listen to tales of happiness where you lacked it. Whenever Cara and Don weren’t looking, you allowed your eyebrows to droop a little, let your eyes crinkle up and your smile rest. You chugged the rest of your drink, leaned back into a surprisingly plush cushion, and let your mind wander as the night rolled along.

Your best friend was getting married. Joe was becoming increasingly involved with Service League. You, meanwhile, were behind on your homework. You, meanwhile, had difficulty getting up in the morning. You, meanwhile, had found it simpler to skip dinner than to throw it up later.

And somewhere out there was Kylo Ren.

Maybe he was close-by, still on the bridge after a long day of… commanding-stuff. Maybe he was arguing with Hux or Phasma in the Command Block. Maybe he was tucked into a warm, plush bed of his own, having already forgotten about you—it was, after all, just a one-off thing.

Maybe he was listening.

You nipped the timid voice of hope in the bud and sent a routine smile Cara’s way, politely nodding your head at whatever story she was telling now. She seemed happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, heathens, more godless Kylo smut is on the way.


	4. The Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You fuck up at least three times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But Kylosbrickhousebody, you can't literally write out your days, throw in your sexual daydreams, and call that a fic!"
> 
> But, like, that's where you're wrong, though.
> 
> Also, a reference to Camus for your nerves (or, alternatively, the Seattle publication).

You rolled over, tugging the sheet closer to your chest. The growing lights of the room filtered through your lashes with every sleep-hazed blink. Bed felt so warm. You stretched out under the covers, extending both legs until they would extend no further. Sure, your legs kicked off the end of the tiny bed when you did so—and it wasn’t large enough to roll over comfortably, either—but it was yours.

A small groan of satisfaction escaped your lips. This morning would be different; there’d be no heavy weight on your shoulders preventing you from getting out of bed. No, the warmth of the blanket felt lovely, but there was a day ahead.

At least you had a little longer to snuggle under the covers. You’d just heard your alarm go off a few moments before—that would mean it was a bit after 09:20 now. You reached out, eyes still closed, and palmed blindly along the surface of the flimsy plastic nightstand for your datapad. You thumbed the side button; a faint glow appeared beyond your eyelids. Opening them with reluctance, you squinted at the screen.

11:23.

Fuck.

You’d slept through Statistics.

The covers were thrown back with prejudice, legs bounding across the threshold of the tiny room. The liquid fire of panic burned in your veins, making your heard pound and your hands shake. You rushed through your morning checklist, grabbing the uniform you’d left on the bathroom floor the night before. You tugged the last sock on while leaning halfway out the door, balancing precariously as you buckled the opposite shoe with one hand.

Fuck.

The hallways of _Supremacy_ weren’t particularly friendly—especially, as it turned out, if you were running through them. Troopers waved their blasters at you; officers sneered. Unless you ran into the Triumvirate, they could kiss your ass.

 _If you did, you’d be kissing_ his _—_

You groaned at your inner monologue and pressed on without another thought, shoving a few slow-walking novices aside when you neared the teaching block of your group. The Linear Algebra classroom was only a few strides away. You confirmed the time with a quick glance towards your pad: 11:41. You’d made it in time.

When you entered, you discovered you’d lost your usual spot to a student who’d arrived earlier and blocked out a chain of three seats with his friends. You scowled; you liked that seat. The room was too-rectangular; if you sat on either end, you couldn’t see what was being written on the board furthest from you. You would’ve thought, with all its money, that the First Order would’ve invested in auditorium-style curved lecture halls. Nope.

You scowled. Another first-order-world problem to add to the list.

You heaved the heavy bag off your back and onto the table in front of you: last row, last empty seat. At least there wouldn’t be much writing today, you grumbled. You reached into the bag and started shoving stacks of crinkled paper aside; it was quiz day, and you had a calculator to find. For whatever it was worth, the student next to you seemed equally panicked. He sat hunched over his datapad, reviewing the solutions to the last few homeworks. Not a bad idea.

You had, of course, convinced yourself that you knew the material last night—without doing the homework, which luckily was never collected. You knew the quiz was likely to prove you wrong (as they always seemed to), but lately you just hadn’t found the strength to study for real. Instead, you glanced quickly over the pages of your textbook from the safety of your bed, or stole glances at your datapad while out with your friends. There was something about being alone, quiet, upright, and studying that unnerved you. You supposed you just hadn’t grown into a real adult yet.

Something soft and gummy stuck to your fingers, which were now rifling through the very bottom barrels of your bag. You pulled a face and peered in; it looked as though you may have lost a chocolate taffy or two to the godless abyss down there. You really needed to get more organized. Thankfully, your fingers tapped against it a moment later, cold plastic brushing against your fingertips—your calculator.

You pulled it out—chocolate-free—and set it down on the tabletop.

_Fuck with me, quiz._

Your neighbor seemed—wisely, probably—less confident. His neck was still craned, looking over examples of change-of-bases problems. You peeked at his screen, trying to remember how to even find eigenvalues in the first place. Yeah, your confidence was definitely unwarranted.

You sprang into your own tizzy of panic as the professor walked in with a thick stack of papers in her hand. She was one of those insufferable people—a human of the worst order: beautiful, put-together, smart, and impossible to dislike, even when you’d committed to it. You let yourself stare for a few small moments at her sensible wedges, tailored pant-suit, and unreasonably-flowing hair. It didn’t even look like she had to tame it with product. How dare she, honestly.

It wasn’t a bad class from that perspective, you thought as you turned back to last-minute studying. Classes were made infinitely better by professors who gave a damn, tried to help their students understand, and had a sense of humor—i.e. like 0.2% of First Order instructors. Being pretty also didn’t hurt (lower that to 0.02%). Even among your peers, you felt relatively comfortable in the class. It was outside of your primary domain, linear algebra, so you barely knew anyone here; yet, somehow, you’d formed a bond over your mutual pain. A year ago, in the prerequisite to Statistics, you hadn’t known anyone and managed to isolate yourself instead. Now, at least, you’d come into your don’t-give-a-fuck own.

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that one of the quiz questions is an exact copy of a homework question,” Dr. Chauhal said as she started passing out the papers, beginning at the opposite end of the room.

You tucked your datapad away, turned on your calculator, and prepared to meet your death.

The kid next to you poked his head up for the first time.

“I look forward to getting it wrong.”

You weren’t sure you’d ever related to anything more deeply.

 

* * *

 

You were slow to leave the classroom, intent on clearing the group messages you’d received during the much-too-long quiz. The first one had an @ alert attached to it:

 

> **– Cara | 12:03 –**
> 
> _AYO BITCH_

 

> **– Cara | 12:08 –**
> 
> _biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch_

 

> **– Cara | 12:09 –**
> 
> _Ugh I wanted to get lunch_

 

> **– Don | 12:11 –**
> 
> _You’re dumb, she has a Chanhul class then_

 

> **– Cara | 12:14 –**
> 
> _Wtf how do YOU know this_

 

> **– Don | 12:15 –**
> 
> _I actually listen_

A smirk covered your face; you rolled your eyes at the happy couple, swiping their messages into the ‘read’ pile. You glanced down at the time now: 12:28.

Right at the end of Period III.

Oh, right, she’d said _lunch_. Something dropped into the pit of your stomach, which rumbled almost on cue. Traitor.

You frowned, an awkward self-consciousness creeping across your skin. No, no one knew—and they wouldn’t. You’d just get some tea and go study for your exam. You didn’t have time to deal with this problem now, to go to the counseling center. Besides, it would go on your record. You couldn’t have that.

Just then, another message popped up—one outside of the group messaging service. You frowned, peering down at it with knit brows; you rarely texted outside of that app. Stranger still, the alert came with a small box—the one you got when you’d never received a message from that person before:

 

> **–– Unknown ID ––**
> 
> **–– Open Message? Y | N ––**

You double checked: yep, it’d come through the First Order messaging system—surely it was safe to open? You hesitated for a moment. You’d never seen ‘Unknown ID’ before; everyone in the Order had some sort of ID. The only way to change how it showed up on your app was to change your settings person-by-person, like you’d done with your friends. Obviously, you noted with a frown, you hadn’t done that here.

You shrugged a little and hit ‘Y’ for the hell of it.

 

> **– Unknown ID | 12:29 –**
> 
> _You’re out of class._

If you were confused before, it had gotten even worse now. No name attached to the text itself, either? It made no sense.

 

> **– You | 12:30 –**
> 
> _new phone who dis lmao_

You tucked your datapad into your bag, brushed off the strange text, and took off towards the Math Department staff lounge. It always had a ‘NO STUDENTS ALLOWED’ sign on it; you always ignored it. The cycle of life, y’know?

You popped a green tea pod into the compact machine—black tea bothered your stomach—and hit ‘Brew’. You tapped your foot, willing the tea to brew faster, when a compulsive need to check your notifications washed over you.

The curiosity felt overwhelming as you thumbed your pad on again; who _was_ the stranger?

 

> **– Unknown ID | 12:31 –**
> 
> _Come here._

You groaned; probably one of the creepy info-sec boys playing a practical joke. They were going to get their asses beat if someone discovered they’d hacked messaging, though. You were half-ready to turn the culprit in yourself.

 

> **– You | 12:36 –**
> 
> _who is this lol_

You always added the lol—always—when you actually wanted to be confrontational. You made a small mental note to work on that, what with wanting to be a strong woman and all—owning your words and such. Or, uh, something.

Your pad pinged.

 

> **– Unknown ID | 12:37 –**
> 
> _Here._

 

You glanced up from the message and around the room, the slight shiver of paranoia rising up your neck. No one was in the break room—obviously, or you’d long since be kicked out.

 

 

> **– You | 12:37 –**
> 
> _where_

 

You reached up, opened one of the top cabinets, and hastily grabbed a lid. The anonymous exchange was making you increasingly uncomfortable—the feeling that you were being watched became more and more solidified in the pit of your already-aching stomach.

You picked up your drink just as the pad buzzed again—something you regretted deeply a moment later, when your eyes had had time to process the message and the hot water went splashing over your hand with the accompanying jerk of your wrist.

 

> **– Unknown ID | 12:38 –**
> 
> _Command Block._

Holy.

Shit.

No.

Every piece of the puzzle fell into place in the exact same moment.

You’d said ‘new phone who dis’ to Kylo fucking Ren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have no fear, smut is near.


	5. You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I was trash and I was not kidding.
> 
> Also sorry for the mega long non-update period, I am the absolute worst.

“Disrespectful little slut,” he growls in your ear, one gloved hand fisting in your hair, drawing your head back against his shoulder. He presses his body into yours; you can feel the length of his erection rubbing against your ass. You shiver, desperate to relieve the tension between your legs.

“No,” you whimper softly, involuntarily.

“No?” his other hand drags along the length of your body, feeling up the curve of your hip, palming your breasts, before coming to rest on your neck. There, he brushes leather-encased fingers against your artery. “You want to be a good girl?”

He squeezes lightly when he purrs the words in your ear, expertly cutting off the blood supply. Your head swims, little pinpricks of sexual frustration in your eyes. “Yes,” you manage to whisper.

“Yes?” he reiterates, softer now, the cool metal of his vocoder pressing into the hollow of your collarbone like a sort of substitute kiss. “Yes, what?”

He lessens his grip on your neck. “Yes, I want to be good. I want to be so good—”

Your voice sounds frantic and desperate and _submissive_.

You rub your already-slicked thighs together as the hand in your hair holds you in place while he moves to murmur in your ear. “I know you do,” he pats the mound of your cunt, “I know you do.”

It’s all you can manage to stifle a moan. “Shh shh shh,” he chastises, “I didn’t say you could make noise, did I?”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together as one gloved finger slips between your folds.

“ _That’s right. That’s it_. Good little girls stay quiet while their pussies are played with.”

Warm leather pressed against your clit, rubbing in hard, smooth circles. It takes all you have to suppress a groan.

“You’re going to be good for me?”

You nod furiously, the back of your head resting on a muscled shoulder.

“You promise?”

More frantic nods.

“We’ll see,” he murmurs darkly—a clear challenge—but lets you bury your face in the soft fabric of the hood that pools around his neck.

He wraps one arm around your waist, keeping you flush to him. He’s strong; you can’t move, can’t stop him even if you wanted to, and some sick part of you _loves it._

His occupied hand dips lower, the finger that rubbed at your clit circling at your entrance.

“Quiet,” he growls in warning, pressing his middle finger into your cunt.

You bite down on your lower lip, doing your best to obey what feels like an impossible command.

His finger moves easily, already slick with your arousal, pumping in and out of you with a punishing speed.

“You like this,” he grunts, “you fucking like this.”

You nod; you know he wants you to.

“Little fucking whore,” the mechanical voice of Kylo Ren groans, “ _my_ little fucking whore.”

You swallow thickly, tears forming in your eyes again from the effort of remaining silent. _Please_ , you think, _anything, let me beg for you_ —

“You _are_ a good girl, aren’t you? _Fuck_ —”

A hiss is succeeded by a grunt, and he pulls his lower half away for a moment. You can’t stifle the murmur that escapes your lips from the loss, a little involuntary sound of protest.

He slaps your ass. Hard.

“You want to make noise?” he pants, tugging down the zipper of his pants. The sound of rustling leather follows as he sheds his pants, stepping out of them and kicking the garment aside. “I’ll give you something to make noise about.”

A large, warm palm comes down on your other ass cheek, leaving behind a sharp sting—and a handprint, you’re sure of it. You realize now that he’s shed his gloves. His bare skin touches yours; the spark that shoots through you almost feels like too much.

“Good little girls,” he croons into your ear, “lie down on their bellies.”

The hand retakes its claim in your hair, fisting hard like he must know you like. He reasserts himself behind you—a much more obvious erection dangerously poking into your backside—and forces you into the nearby desk.

You know what he wants, and you give it.

“Fuck,” you hear him hiss again, flipping up the back of your skirt. Large fingers grab at the band of your panties—a thong—and he wastes no time dragging it down to your thighs. “There’s that pretty little pussy.”

Two fingers press into your cunt from behind, spreading you open slowly. A wet slapping noise reverberates in the room; you realize, vaguely, that he’s stroking his cock as he fucks you on his fingers.

“There you go. That’s what you need, isn’t it?”

You’re well past the point of blushing, but the words make you squirm. The constant stream of obscenities and filth coming out of his mouth only make you wetter and he notices, pumping his fingers faster. The slapping noise of skin against skin stops for a moment; the press of a warm, velvety, hard rod between your legs makes your mind go blank.

He slicks his length in your folds, the head of his cock catching on your clit. He thrusts between your thighs, not penetrating you, though two large thumbs grasp either side of your lips to pull you apart to his view.

“Fuck—such a tight little cunt.” His hands press on your thighs, spreading them wider until the sensitive skin of your inner thighs straddles his. Then he moves to gather your wrists, which he holds above your head, pressing them down into the desk. He holds you there, just like that, helpless and open to him.

“Condom,” you beg, pleased to find that he doesn’t argue. Your wrists are released for a moment, the tearing of foil somewhere behind you. When he presses his length between your legs again, you feel the distinct smoothness of latex.

“Thank you,” you whisper with dual meaning. You think you feel him swell behind you, but you can’t be sure.

The length of his body bends over yours, and you feel the prick of his cock head at your entrance.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he says dangerously, “harder than you’ve ever been fucked before.”

He thrusts into you without further preamble, tearing a groan from you both. His emanates from somewhere deep in his chest; you shiver against him, his chest still flush to your back.

Kylo Ren pulls out slowly, then shoves himself back in. Your cunt flutters and squeezes more of his cock with each thrust as the inches press into you. He moans when he finally bottoms out—the kind of moan that sounds like pure pleasure—and something within you twists. You’re convinced you’re some kind of drunk when he whispers to you that you’re so good for him, his sweet slut.

“I’m going to come inside you,” he pants, his breath ragged, his hips pounding you against the edge of his desk. It was going to hurt later, but for now, it sounded like the best thing in the world.

“Please,” you whisper, and he comes undone. A hand fists in your hair again, forcing an arch in your back, forcing you up against him as he ruts his hips against yours as far as they’ll go.

“You,” he says in your ear, cock still straining in you, “are going to _fucking eat_. And go to class—all of them. You are going to _obey me_.”

You almost miss yourself whispering the “Yes, sir.”


End file.
